“Yes.” She sits with me, quiet, as I work through my own grief. Behind us, my mother eventually goes silent. Cat’s head rests against my shoulder.
“Your father?” she asks eventually.
I stare down the hall. “He’ll be in his office. Wait for me?”
“Always.” She draws up her knees as I stand, brushing myself down.
My father was always a stickler for appearance. I doubt it will make a difference today.
Not bothering to knock, I walk straight in.
My father is slumped over his desk. Thick gray scruff covers his lower face and neck, his eyes bleary as he looks up. He doesn’t say anything as I incline my head.
“Padre.”
He picks up his glass, takes a deep swig of amber liquid. The smell of it hangs in the air around him, clings to his crumpled clothes, the stained shirt. “You’re here.”
A disinterested statement, as he stares at the bottle that now occupies most of his days. Stepping closer, I inspect the bottle too. Reach out to lift it.
A hand slams down over my wrist. “Leave it.”
We lock gazes. I don’t let go.
My father releases my hand only to yank open a drawer and pull out another bottle. He doesn’t bother with the glass this time. “Why are you here?”
I study him. “You’re going to drink yourself to death.”
He takes another swig rather than answering.
“You have another daughter. You arefailingher.”
Silence. He doesn’t meet my gaze, and anger prickles the back of my neck. “You have a family to take care of.”
“They don’t want me,” he says finally. “Nor do you,capo.”
I grit my teeth at the bitter twist there. “Do not judge me for stepping up to take on a role that you were incapable of filling. I seenothingthat tells me I was wrong.”
I’m wasting my time. My father is not ready to listen. Too lost in the alcohol, in the haze that consumes him daily.
“I’m cutting you off,” I say quietly. “An allowance will be made for food and brought to the house. There will be no alcohol. I will arrange a nurse for mamma, to work on getting her off the meds.”
His hands clench on the glass in his hand. “You can’t do that.”
“I can, and I will.” My jaw hardens. “As you pointed out, I am the Fusco capo now. You will no longer have access to the accounts. And nor will Rosa. If I hear of you pressuring her, I will come back here and it will not end well.”
“Stronzo,” he hisses. “It should have beenyou, not her.”
My back straightens. My father opens his mouth, closes it again before looking away.
“Rosa does not deserve to lose her parents too.” My voice raises, hardens into ice. “I know you are grieving. We areallgrieving. I refuse to allow you the luxury of losing yourself in the bottom of a bottle as the rest of your family suffers for it. Hate me for that by all means, if it makes you feel better. If it makes you feelanything.”
“Get out,” he says tightly.
Gladly. I can’t stay here for a moment longer, watching him spiral into self-destruction as my mother overdoses down the hall and my sister walks on eggshells in a house filled with death.
“Nicci would be disappointed in you, Giovanni, to see you treat me like this.”
My hand grips the doorknob.
